


Nothing But Flesh and Blood

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Consent Issues, M/M, Other, Remix, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles made them do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4377611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This is death, Valjean thinks. It must be. How very strange it should take such a form. The two of them, captor and captive, held alike here in this dark Purgatory.</i>
</p>
<p>A failed suicide, a failed rescue attempt, and some unexpected consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing But Flesh and Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StripySock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Beneath the Deeps](https://archiveofourown.org/works/686843) by [StripySock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock). 



> A remix of Stripy's "Beneath the Deeps" -- I'm afraid I changed the Javert/Monster OTP a bit, but on the other hand more Valjean can hardly be a bad thing?
> 
> Thank you so much to Sath, my excellent beta.

When he sees the figure standing on the parapet, there is a long moment of nothing but weariness.

Why has he come here? Some instinct must have guided him, some suspicion aroused by Javert's strange manner earlier. A moment of relief upon realising he was gone, followed by worry -- what if Javert were to return, later, when Cosette was awake? What if that would be her last memory of him, a wretch dragged away in chains?

Far more preferable, then, to find Javert, to seek him out and have his fate sealed away from his daughter's loving eyes. Indeed, there is almost a relief in it: no more running, no more hiding, let them do to him what they will. There is nothing Javert can take away from him that he has not already lost. 

But as he turns a corner to see the river before him, and as he recognises the man standing with his back to him, a tall dark shadow in the night, he knows it will not be so easy after all. 

His body is aware before his mind of what is about to happen. He does not reflect on it, knows only with perfect clarity that Javert is about to fall, that Javert's life is about to be lost after he himself saved it earlier, that he, Jean Valjean, is about to watch a man die unless he stops him. That this is his final and greatest test: it was not enough to save the boy's life so he can take Cosette away. Not enough to stop running, to give in, to let himself be trapped and caught and destroyed. 

It will never be enough, he thinks, weariness bone-deep within him, and he is almost angry, insofar as he still has the force to be angry. But in that very moment Javert steps forward, and Valjean's body breaks free from his mind; he runs across the street, kicks off his shoes, and dives. 

The surface shatters, the river roars in his ears, the water is cold and dark and impenetrable. He cannot find Javert, he is growing faint, the current is too strong and he is too tired. Perhaps this is how it should end, with him pursuing Javert into death, and he closes his eyes, again almost relieved, though the feeling is drowned out by horrible longing as the thought of Cosette floods his mind.

His lungs are tightening with lack of air, and therefore it takes him a moment to notice the rope winding about his chest, thick and strong and foreign. For the first time he feels panic, jerking against that strange bond, but to no avail. He is taken, dragged away through the dark masses of water, and when finally he breaks the surface again, he can only retch and choke and retch again, his heart beating feverishly. The air is sweet to him, whether he likes it or not, and he breathes and breathes, swallows down large gulps until his heart no longer pounds in his throat and his vision returns. 

He is in a dark cave, his head and shoulders over the water. The bond around his chest is still there; he runs a hand over it, then jerks back. It is warm, like living flesh -- a giant animal?

And then there is a sound a little in front of him, a disbelieving groan: "Valjean?" 

He starts. Javert is there, haggard and pale, hair and whiskers clinging in wet clumps to his head, mouth half-open. For long seconds they stare at each other. Then Javert makes a move as if to approach him, but from the way the motion is disrupted halfway, he must be bound as well. 

This is death, Valjean thinks. It must be. How very strange it should take such a form. The two of them, captor and captive, held alike here in this dark Purgatory. 

Again he runs a hand over the thing holding him fast. A memory of old tales, faded with time, rears its head within him. Giant creatures of the sea, arms long enough and strong enough to break ships into pieces, thrash them ruthlessly against the shore. Of all the torments he might have expected after death, this one has never occurred to him; for a moment he feels insane laughter bubbling in his throat. 

He swallows it down. There is nothing to laugh at. 

Javert, for his part, is shaking his head, muttering to himself. "No," Valjean hears, "no, no. This makes no sense. You shouldn't be here. It should be over. This must be a dream. A dream, a dream..."

Valjean does not respond; Javert's mutterings are not for him. He looks around, trying to gauge any possible escape routes in the darkness but finding none. The rope -- the arm -- around him does not cease its grip, and now another one joins it, winding about his chest possessively. For a moment he tenses in fear, but then he remembers that fear is futile. If this is death, there is nothing more to dread; if it isn't yet, then surely it is just a matter of time. 

He wills himself to exhale, relaxing in surrender. As if to reward him, the arms ease their grip a little in turn. A third tendril, a smaller one, comes to stroke his face, almost tenderly, and he shivers, reminded of Cosette's gentle hand against his cheek, unable to refrain from leaning into the touch. What a strange death this is, to be choked so lovingly, he thinks, fully expecting the tendril to snake about his neck. 

Instead, it winds its way downwards, easing up the buttons of his ruined clothing, stealing inside to glide over his chest. At this he tenses once more, a dark suspicion rising in his mind -- but no, surely not, why would the creature do such a thing... 

A strange sound draws his attention back to Javert, who is watching him, eyes wild. Valjean can barely make out the shape of the arm binding him, a dark curve half-emerging from the water. 

"What devilry is this?" Javert whispers. "Why are you here?" 

Valjean does not answer. What is there to say? He is here because Javert is here, because Javert chose to fall, because Valjean chose to follow him. He lowers his head, resigned. Let the beast do to him what it will, let it strip him naked and bare, let Javert's eyes witness it all. None of it matters. He has nothing to prove to Javert. 

The creature strokes his chest, like the lover's caress he has never known. Gently, inexorably, it slips off his shirt, then curls around his waist again, warm and strange against his skin. When a tendril dips into his trousers, unbuttoning them, he freezes, momentarily forgetting his resolve not to fight. It pays him no heed but peels off the remainder of his clothing, and then there is nothing between him and the beast. A rope-like arm is still around his waist, a smaller one stealing down between his legs, and although he expected it the shock still makes him shudder. 

He breathes heavily as the thing folds around his prick. It is not his will, this is the creature having its way with him; he is as powerless to stop it from happening as he is to change anything that has happened in his life. His flesh responds to the gentle touch, hardening in a way that should be shameful, but what does shame matter here in the dark waters beyond life and death? 

Javert's groan reverberates in the cave. "For God's sake, Valjean! Answer me! What _is_ this thing?" 

The creature must be affecting him as well. Javert is looking more disturbed by the second, panting heavily. His greatcoat has been removed; even as Valjean watches, a tentacle comes up to pull off the rest of Javert's soaked clothing. Javert has seemingly not yet accepted the futility of protest, for he keeps writhing and snarling in the creature's grasp. 

At last he must admit defeat; he is naked as far as Valjean can see -- that is to say from the chest and up -- and still held fast by thick and relentless arms. The sight is disturbing to Valjean, if only because it mirrors the way he himself is held, and now he is fully hard, the creature wrapped about his prick softly but firmly, and he never wished for Javert to see him like this, never thought of it, and although it should not matter, he finds that it does. Javert's eyes are wide and dark and terrified -- his mouth opens in an _O_ , and Valjean can only assume what the creature must be doing. 

This is Javert's undoing as much as his own. Perhaps it is only fitting that they are brought here together, enduring this together.

As soon as he thinks this, a tip of a tendril slips down between his buttocks, and he shudders without meaning to, throwing his head back and arching his hips, and at this Javert groans again, loudly. 

When Valjean again meets his eyes, there's a look of mortification in them, which is strange, all things considered. He does not ponder it further, for now the tendril is probing at him, clearly seeking its way inside, and with a sinking feeling of inevitability he spreads his legs and allows it entrance. 

It is painful at first, albeit less than expected. He wills himself to relax, breathing heavily as the tentacle works its way inside him, warm and cruel in its inexplicable tenderness. 

He thought he had nothing more to lose. How wrong he was. To be breached in such a manner, to have this taken from him, to be subjected to this final violation -- he cannot decide whether or not he wants it to hurt more than it does. But the creature seems intent on his pleasure, holding him tight, still stroking his chest and prick with languid determination; it eases into him little by little, waiting for him to relax around it before resuming its path. 

"By God, Valjean," Javert rasps. There is a flush on his face; he looks almost dazed. Valjean thinks the creature must be doing the same thing to him, hidden under the dark surface of the water. "Make it stop." 

He finds his voice at last. "I can't stop it anymore than you can," he says, choking down a moan as the tendril inside him hits something sensitive. "I don't know what this thing is or why it brought us here. I only followed you when you jumped." 

"The man of mercy." Javert sounds strangely angry. "I didn't want you to. I jumped because I could not in good conscience -- _God!_ " 

Valjean finds himself unable to look away, to stop picturing what goes on under the water: the creature touching Javert the way he himself is being touched, wrapped around him, sliding into him. Unbidden, images fill his mind -- Javert's prick hard and straining, his body opening around the intrusion, giving itself over... 

He swallows. Javert has always been a guard dog, a shadow, a harsh voice, a claw-like grasp. Seeing him like this -- open and vulnerable, more frightening than ever in his naked humanity -- is terrible, even more so for the heat it stirs within him, that sudden desire to touch Javert himself, to feel a human body against his own rather than the alien limbs that bind him. 

Javert is nothing but a man after all, held in this creature's grasp; his gasps are mirroring the ones torn from Valjean's own mouth. Their gazes meet and lock, and in Javert's eyes Valjean can see the confusion giving way to a horrible hunger. It is the hunger he remembers from an infirmary in Montreuil, many years ago, but now it seems stronger, stripped naked and revealed, here in this place where there are no earthly distinctions between them. 

"Valjean," Javert groans. His breathing is loud, and Valjean wonders what it would feel like in his ear, against his skin. "For God's sake, Valjean, do not look at me -- I should not have your eyes upon me -- this thing, it is inside me now, it is so large, and when you look at me it is so easy to pretend -- oh God, oh God, oh God..." 

The words wash over him, as senseless and mysterious as the creature's tendril where it pushes forward, holds back, pushes forward. The raw sensation of it, of being held and filled and embraced as he has never been before, is making it hard to think, although he fights to hold onto a sense of himself. But his mind is slipping, its clarity muddled by the creature's relentless touch, the grasp on his hard flesh, the slow slick glide inside him. And through all of that there is the sudden awareness of Javert's proximity, of Javert's desire, of Javert being as naked and trapped as he himself is, nothing but flesh and blood. 

Despite Javert's pleas, he is looking. He cannot help it. Perhaps it is simply his imagination, but it seems to him that they are closer now, Javert only a couple of feet away, close enough for him to see every ripple of Javert's trapped body, every nuance of his expressions, every shade of lust and helpless shame. If he were not caught in the creature's embrace, he could have reached out and touched him, stroked his fingers over Javert's panting mouth, run his hand down that hairy chest, felt warm skin against his own.

This must be death. Surely such thoughts would never have come to him in life. Even so, his body is eager and hungry, and he finds that his hips are thrusting into the creature's touch, as if into a human lover; the tendril inside is sliding in and out of him now, sending a raw jolt of pleasure through him with each push. 

Without thinking he frees an arm -- and the creature allows it, easing its grasp on his upper body just a little -- and reaches out through the water, towards Javert. Javert stares at his own arm as it moves in turn, seemingly of its own volition, then back to Valjean, looking stunned. Their hands meet and clasp, a shock of a touch. Javert's hand is warm and human in his own, and suddenly the two of them are very close -- the creature must be bringing them together, Valjean realises, although he cannot understand why, but neither does he understand anything else that is happening or why they have been brought here. 

But it does not matter. All that is asked of him is his acceptance, and so he relaxes once more, lets Javert's long fingers fold around his own -- Javert lets out a strangled sigh -- and when they are pushed together, first their torsos, then their lips, he closes his eyes and lets it happen. 

The mouth against his own is warm and wet, trembling with what could either be fear or barely-controlled hunger, or perhaps both. This is Javert, Valjean thinks, this is the man who has followed him for so long and yet has remained a stranger, and he opens his mouth a little, caught by the way it feels, unfamiliar and overwhelming, an intimacy unexpected and unprecedented in every way. Javert's tongue prods at his own, still balancing between hesitant and demanding, and then there is a forceful thrust from the creature that has him buck forward, involuntarily, and Javert does the same, and they groan into each other's mouths. 

"I cannot believe it," Javert is gasping between kisses. "That this should happen to you -- Lord knows I deserve whatever indignity there is, but _you_... Oh God, Valjean, Valjean, say something, let me know there is pleasure in it for you as well, don't let your violation be added to my sins!" 

But he does not say anything, for he does not know what to say. All kinds of thoughts are flowing through his mind, all sorts of feelings are welling up in his heart. None of this makes sense and yet the mouth against his own is real, the mouth of the man who has hunted him, who -- if he is to be believed -- tried to drown himself rather than complete his hunt. In this unreality, Javert is real, Javert is alive in this lifeless place, Javert is moaning against his lips, making sounds that are half-angry, half-desperate: "Valjean, Valjean, please, Valjean..." 

He is locked in place by the creature still, driven to the edge of reason by the hot limbs inside and around him, but even if he could move, he thinks he would not. He would still be compelled by this hot, messy kiss that goes on and on, only occasionally broken by gasps for air, he would still crave the hot breath on his skin, the choked mutterings of his name. The creature keeps its hold on them both, allowing only for the meeting of their mouths and hands, for their necks to strain in order to get closer, and if he could, he would not move away; he would touch Javert, wrap his arms around him and learn the shape of his limbs with his hands.

It cannot be Jean Valjean thinking these things. This is all utterly foreign to him, just as this man so close to him, whimpering his name against his skin, cannot be Javert. They are not themselves anymore, broken by their fall and their alien captor, but as he finally arches his back and comes in a last, helpless shudder, as Javert gasps and groans and trembles in turn, he cannot help but wonder if, deep down, they are not so different after all -- if the parts of them so ruthlessly uncovered are still Valjean and Javert.

Afterwards, he floats in dreamlike weariness, the creature pulling out of him and loosening its touch, keeping a tender arm wrapped around his torso. He closes his eyes, too tired now to meet Javert's gaze, but the laboured breathing next to him tells him that they are still here together. Something must be done, he thinks, but only half-heartedly, for his strength has been sapped from him by exhaustion and sorrow and pain and pleasure, and his eyelids are heavy, and his body feels heavy, and surely death should grant him sleep at last. 

 

~ 

 

He wakes to find himself lying on a hard, uneven surface, unexpected brightness above him. With a shock he realises he is on the bank of the river Seine, the sky light with dawn, the noises of the wakening city faint in the background. 

Javert is sitting next to him, equally naked, his eyes wandering over Valjean's body. When Valjean looks at him, he quickly averts his gaze, colouring. Grey hair lies plastered to his skull, his shoulders are still glistening wet. They cannot have been here long. 

His eyes are drawn to Javert's mouth. Already what happened seems like a dream, made up by a dream's impossibilities. But the fact remains that they are both here, naked to the world and to each other, and doomed to live. 

He gets to his feet, wincing at the protests from his still-battered body. Aware of Javert's gaze on him, he searches the debris for some sort, any sort, of cover. A ragged old coat, a woollen blanket -- that will have to do until they find shelter. He wraps the blanket around himself and hands the coat to Javert. 

"Come," he says, turning. Without looking he knows that Javert rises to his feet and follows him.

The river bank is rough under his bare feet, a welcome discomfort, grounding him in reality. This is not a dream, he thinks, listening for Javert's breath behind him as they slowly trudge along towards the Rue de l'Homme-Armé. This is what the new day looks like: the two of them under the rising sun, leaving the river behind, quiet and tired and alive.


End file.
